


The Aftermath

by haganenoheichou



Series: The Grasses [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Heartbreak, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Pining, Trauma, Violence, Witcher!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-02-22 21:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23000443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haganenoheichou/pseuds/haganenoheichou
Summary: Geralt won't rest until he finds a way to turn Jaskier back. All the bard wants is to be heard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Grasses [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1617196
Comments: 23
Kudos: 413





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the idea was quite popular, so... Here's part 2 of my Witcher!Jaskier fic?

There was a long pause during with none of the trio moved, until Jaskier barked out a cough of a laugh, his eyes filled with incredulity. 

“Oh, Geralt, I see your sense of... h-humor hasn’t improved, h-has it?” He chortled painfully, unable to move more than an inch on the table. “Me, a-a... Witcher? Why, Filavandrel w-would have a better… chance of…” 

He trailed off when he saw that nobody else had cracked a smile. Both Yennefer and Geralt stood over him, looking as if they were attending a rather morose funeral. His eyes traveled from one to the other before he reached out and grabbed at Geralt’s wrist with surprising strength for someone who had just been brought back from the dead. 

“I want to see. Show it to me again,” he breathed, looking up at Geralt with those unnatural eyes of his. The Witcher found that he already missed the blue. 

“Jaskier–,” 

“I want to _see_ ,” the bard insisted, tugging on Geralt’s arm to sit up. The older man sighed and reached for the hand mirror once more. He hesitated for another moment. 

“Damn it, G-Geralt, _show me_!” 

Geralt kept his eyes fixed on Jaskier as he held the mirror in front of his face. The range of emotion that passed over his tired features was impressive; until it settled into something Geralt could only assume was heartbreak. Jaskier didn’t cry – although the Witcher had fully expected him to. Instead, there was a stubborn set to his jaw, a resolve unlike any Geralt had ever seen on him. There was a slight twitch in his throat as he leaned in to inspect himself closer. 

"I need a tan," the bard then said, pushing against the mirror feebly. Geralt set it aside and cast a worried glance toward Yennefer, who only shrugged her shoulders and turned away to putter around with her tinctures, giving them some privacy. She was a lot more sensitive than she let on, Geralt remarked, and he was forever grateful for that. 

"Jaskier, it's essential that you try to remember who did this–," 

“Geralt,” said the bard, leveling the Witcher with his amber gaze, “I just w-went through a b-big fucking shock. C-can you stop browbeating me for t-three seconds?” 

Right. Geralt swallowed thickly and nodded, plopping down on the rickety stool next to the table Jaskier was laid out on. The stool gave a feeble squeak of pure agony but remained standing. 

"H-how come I still feel things?" Jaskier asked curiously, his apparent resilience now kicking in. That was something Geralt had always admired about his former travel companion (although he would have never told him that) – the fact that Jaskier, through his adventures with the Witcher, had survived quite a lot of shit, frankly, and always seemed to bounce back with more curiosity and vigor than fear. The Witcher was doubtful that would be what would happen in this case, but he knew that Jaskier, more than anyone, would want to put the horrific things that had happened to him behind him. 

“Because it’s a bunch of codswallop, what they say about us,” Geralt said quietly, glancing at the man. Witcher. Whatever. “Don’t tell me you believed that and still went on to travel with me and declare yourself my friend?” 

Jaskier bristled feebly. “Of course not.” 

“Right, since you two seem to be over the initial shock,” Yennefer said, interrupting them, “Geralt, you need to make yourself scarce because I have actual work to do on your little friend.” 

“I’m not li–,” 

Yennefer leveled Jaskier with a look, and for a moment, he appeared as though he actually wished he hadn't survived the Trial of the Grasses. 

“I’m not leaving,” Geralt said firmly. Yennefer looked like she was about to argue before she glanced back at Jaskier, then at Geralt again, and then her mouth set into a hard line. 

“Fine. Just… be your usual brooding self and don’t make a peep.” 

Geralt huffed and folded his arms across his chest as he watched Yennefer work, looking Jaskier over and paying extra attention to his eyes. 

“Seems like they gave him the usual herbs,” she said quietly, picking up Jaskier’s hand to examine an already scarred-over wound there. “He heals fast, just like you. His heartbeat is slow, like yours.” 

“If it’s the usual herbs, he’s not like me,” Geralt said through gritted teeth. “They went further with me than they had ever done with anyone.” 

Yennefer nodded. “He doesn’t have the same strength you possess. I’m sure there are some potions that you use that might not work on him, or worse, might poison him.” 

“Would you two… stop talking about me like I’m n-not here?” Jaskier asked irritably, amber eyes flashing. Yennefer raised an eyebrow and leveled him with a look that seemed to have lost its power since the bard had discovered he had basically been torn apart and stitched together by alchemy. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 

“No, I… Look, it’s…” Jaskier trailed off, glancing over at the Witcher. “It’s not all bad, is it?” He said, voice hopeful. Both Yennefer and Geralt shot him incredulous looks. 

“I… I mean, now I can h-heal faster, and fight better, and… I’ll live longer, like you,” Jaskier said uncertainly. “We can t-travel together again, right?” 

“You’re a fool,” Yennefer told him bluntly. 

“Yen,” Geralt said, a warning in his voice. 

“What? This _absolute dolt_ thinks being a Witcher is a walk in the park,” the sorceress replied accusingly, pointing a finger at Jaskier’s face. 

“I think I’m a better judge of what being a Witcher is like,” Geralt said quietly, making Yennefer throw her hands up in the air with frustration, cursing under her breath. 

Geralt sighed heavily and leaned over the table where Jaskier was perched. “Do you remember what happened? Anything at all.” 

The bard looked like he would rather swallow a sack of nails than try to remember, but, after some deliberation, nodded weakly. He reached out to Geralt weakly and allowed himself to be pulled up by his hands, wrapped firmly in Geralt's much stronger ones. Even in all his feebleness, Geralt could tell that Jaskier had become far more robust than he had been before – far stronger than any human being ever could. 

Jaskier sat up, folding himself over his knees, which were pulled up to his chest, and took a deep breath before glancing between Yennefer and Geralt. 

“I don’t know how l-long I was there. It was a castle, I think–,

“Kaer Morhen,” Geralt interrupted. “The place where Witchers are made.” 

Jaskier shrugged. "Looked like any other c-castle to me," he said blankly. "It was cold, I think, but I couldn't really tell, b-because I felt… You understand, Geralt, how much p-pain I felt." 

Geralt nodded solemnly. “I understand.” 

“There w-wasn’t just one person there,” Jaskier said with a shudder, his voice hitching. “It seems, sometimes as if… as if I was being studied. Like they were waiting for something to h-happen, something s-special…” 

“If what we think is true, you would be the first of _us_ created in over a century,” Geralt said with a frown. “I was one of the last, the knowledge was lost after the keep was sacked, but it appears someone found a way to revive it.” 

“And you were their experiment,” Yennefer followed up grimly. The elder Witcher gave her an exasperated look (which, on him, appeared as barely a twitch of an eyebrow), but nodded. There was no way of making any of this look better than it actually was. 

"I was their experiment," Jaskier repeated to himself, glancing over at Geralt, who averted his eyes, feeling a stab of guilt in his gut. He couldn't help but think that the reason Jaskier had been targeted in the first place was because of his connection with him. 

“This is exactly why I didn’t want you to come along,” the Witcher said with a frown. 

Jaskier and Yennefer glanced up at him, wearing similar expressions of surprise and exasperation. 

“You’re not saying this is your fault, are you?” Yennefer asked. 

“B-bullshit, Geralt,” Jaskier breathed, trying to sit up a little. The sorceress rushed to his side to help him up. He gave her a grateful pat on the hand for her efforts, his unnatural eyes fixed on the older man. 

“I came along b-because I wanted to, because y-you were the best t-thing to ever happen to m-my art,” he said hotly, his determination undermined by how weak his voice was. His gaze, though, was harder than the steel in Geralt’s sword. “I knew what I was getting myself into.” 

“You had no idea,” Geralt growled, rounding on him menacingly. “You were _a child_! Barely eighteen, you came along because you thought it would be an _adventure,_ because it was new and exciting, you–,” 

“And it _was_!” Jaskier cried, succumbing to a fit of coughing right after. It looked painful, but Geralt refused to be moved, his anger unreasonably directed at the only easy target in the room.

“And it _will be_ because I'm going to stick with you f-forever now!" The bard said with wild eyes, a crack in his voice, and a stitch in his side. The older man just snarled at him, inching closer to his face with a threat in his entire countenance. 

“Don’t you l-look at me like that,” Jaskier whispered, tugging the torn shreds of his doublet around himself in an attempt to shield himself from the cold and from the menacing Witcher across from him. “I’m not afraid of you. I n-never was, and that’s why I stayed.” 

Geralt stared at him for a long while, not saying anything. Then he glanced over at Yennefer, who seemed somewhat partially amused by the exchange, as well as deeply uncomfortable. 

“You're right. He's not made for this life. We need to find a way to turn him back,” the Witcher said finally. 

“We both know it’s impossible,” the sorceress replied gravely. 

"It's not," Geralt said gruffly. "Just because we haven't found a way yet doesn't mean it doesn't exist. Isn't that what you thought when you set out to discover a way to carry a child?" 

Yennefer winced. “The dragon told me it was not possible, you know that, Geralt.” 

“I won’t rest until I find a way to turn him back.” 

“H-how about you listen to me for _one moment_?” Jaskier said through gritted teeth, grabbing Geralt’s sleeve and yanking on it weakly. It didn’t result in any movement from the Witcher. “I want to stay this way.” 

“You don’t,” Geralt replied. 

“Can you quit d-deciding what I do and do not want?” The bard snapped. “Twenty years of this! _Twenty_! I am not a child anymore, Geralt, nor was I one when we met.” 

“You don’t understand what it means to live a life like this,” Geralt said, his jaw set. 

“I understood it better than anyone who wasn’t made a Witcher,” Jaskier replied. “Thanks to you. Thanks to our travels, until you _discarded me_ like garbage.” 

Geralt flinched back as if slapped. The memory of what he had said on the mountain pained him still, but he refused to give in to Jaskier's emotional blackmail. The bard couldn't stay this way, and though Geralt's plate was already full with Cirilla, with Yennefer's having been tied to him, with all the monsters he had the duty to hunt, he knew that he could not just ignore this quest. He had to find a way to turn Jaskier back to human, to give him a way to live out a normal life, not one of loss and blood and scars. 

Before he could say anything else, the door burst open.

“Yen? What’s–,” 

“Ciri!” 

Yennefer rushed to the girl’s side, shielding Jaskier from her view. The princess stepped around her gracefully and looked at Jaskier with curious eyes, a crease between her brows. She sauntered over, ignoring Geralt’s grunt of protest and reached out to touch Jaskier’s face. The bard almost leaned away, but there was something about the girl that just kept him there, frozen, unable to take his eyes off her. 

“I know you. I saw you in my dreams. You’re the man in the dungeon,” she said quietly, studying his face, his golden eyes, the traces of blood and grime on his skin. “I’m sorry about what you had to go through to get here.” 

“You’re safe now.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a new chapter! My apologies for the long wait, work got crazy and I ended up moving amidst the pandemic, so... yeah...

They sat in silence, watching the fire slowly burn up. Geralt’s back was slumped against the wall of Yennefer’s little hut, while Jaskier was bundled up in a variety of furs and blankets, still shivering from time to time. He was seemingly unable to get warm no matter what they tried, no matter how many enchantments Yennefer attempted to put on him to keep his temperature up. Geralt knew that this was a result of the transformation. He’d gone through the same thing way back when at Kaer Morhen, before his body had stabilized entirely. 

"H-how long was I gone?" Jaskier rasped, gazing into the fire without really seeing it. He was trying to concentrate on one thing at a time, but it felt as though everything was too much. The fire was too bright and too loud. He could hear the distant yowling of woodland animals as if they were perched right on his shoulder. Even Geralt's presence by his side, it seemed, was all-encompassing. 

“A while,” Geralt said. “I… I didn’t even know you were gone. It was an accident, me coming across that village.”

“Typical,” Jaskier breathed, a spark of fire in his golden eyes. Geralt couldn’t bear to look at them. 

“I… I am sorry,” he managed to articulate. 

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Jaskier mumbled. He pulled the blankets closer around himself, glaring at Geralt out of the corner of his eye. “You wanted to be rid of me. You were… perfectly clear up on that mountain.” 

Geralt cleared his throat uncomfortably. “At the time… I did,” he said, glancing down at his hands. “There were… things that happened, and I took out my anger on you. I should not have done that.” 

There was a long pause. 

"It's fine," Jaskier sighed. "I couldn't stay mad at you long. The torture kind of… t-took precedence over my hurt feelings." 

Geralt glanced at him wearily. “I never should have left you to fend for yourself.” 

“I’m not helpless,” Jaskier said sharply. 

Geralt leveled him with a long glance. 

“Well, I got captured by some maniacal alchemy aficionados,” Jaskier said, caving a little, “but I am not _that_ helpless, I can use a dagger and everything.” 

"Big load of good that did for you," Geralt said. The feeling of guilt clawed at the inside of his chest, making him uneasy. It had been a while since he had felt so profoundly disturbed by harm coming to someone. The last time had been with Renfri. 

“Look, what do you want me to say?” Jaskier asked, shuffling closer so that he could look Geralt in the face. The older man evaded his gaze. “That I forgive you? That I take you back? That I still want to travel with you the same way I did before? Well, that’s a yes to all of those.” 

“You shouldn’t,” Geralt said, his voice gritty. “You shouldn’t forgive me so easily. It is because of me that they did this to you. Because of me, you have become something people will hate and fear.” 

“I’ve traveled with you enough,” Jaskier said tersely. “As a human, I knew more about what it was like to be a Witcher than anyone else. Anyone who wasn’t a Witcher, that is. And now I am one.” 

“You are a _fledgling_ ," Geralt corrected him. "We still don't know the full extent of what they did to you. You might just be… half a Witcher." 

Jaskier snorted humorlessly. He lifted his eyes to look around the vast expanse of trees that encircled the hut. 

“Is it always this intense?” He asked. “The sounds, the smells?” 

Geralt shrugged pensively. “You get used to it. It just… takes a while before it feels… normal.” 

“ _Normal_ ,” Jaskier repeated incredulously. “Well, at least I’m lucky… I have a Witcher to teach me the ways right here. I wonder what happened to the others.” 

Geralt turned his head sharply. “The others?” 

Jaskier nodded, hugging his knees to his chest. “There were others, I’m pretty sure. I never saw them, but I wasn’t… I wasn’t the only one who screamed,” he said quietly. “I think… few survived, if any. Maybe I was the only one. But if I wasn’t, that means that they were probably thrown out just like me, right? They don’t have anyone like I do.” 

Geralt frowned. What kind of monster would want to resume the creation of Witchers, an unsanctioned operation that was bound to cause human losses? And more importantly, how had they gotten their hands on the secret recipe for the Trial of the Grasses, a recipe that was thought to be lost? 

“I need to go back to Kaer Morhen,” he said. “Whatever those people are up to, the clue must be there.” 

Jaskier looked at him in alarm. “You want to go _back there_? You–," he cut himself off with a deep sigh, burying his nose between his knees. "Of course, you want to go back there," he mumbled. 

“I would never ask you to go with me,” Geralt said gravely. “If what they did to you really happened there–,”

“Yes, yes, I’m traumatized, I know,” Jaskier mumbled. He took a deep breath and exhaled with a flourish as he glanced back up at the older man. “But I’m your best bet to figuring out what happened.” 

“And how to reverse it,” Geralt said. “But you’re not coming with me.” 

“I told you, I don’t _want_ it to be reversed,” Jaskier said hotly. “I want to stay this way. An immortal bard.” 

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Hardly immortal. And nobody would listen to songs sung by a Witcher.” 

“They listened to songs sung _about_ one.” 

“That is different,” Geralt said, his hackles rising. “You don’t understand how–,” 

“I spent enough time on the receiving end of people’s ire for associating with you,” said the bard. “Did I ever waver? Before you so gracelessly sent me away?” 

“I told you, I’m sor–,” 

“Prove to me how sorry you are by teaching me,” Jaskier snapped. “Teach me what it’s like to be a Witcher, _help me be useful_!” 

The two of them stared at each other before Geralt finally allowed himself to look away. “Even if I refuse you a thousand times, you will still get your way, won’t you?” He said in resignation. 

Jaskier nodded, unable to keep the smile off his face. 

“I could never say no to you,” Geralt grumbled. 

“That’s not true,” Jaskier said accusingly, his voice filled with warmth for the first time since their reunion. “You punched me in the stomach on the first day we traveled together.” 

“I was traveling,” Geralt said. “You tagged along.” 

Jaskier smiled at him widely, his tired features illuminated by the gesture. Somehow, Geralt couldn’t look away. 

* * *

“How long have you and Geralt known each other?” 

Jaskier would have dropped his mug of water onto the floor if he hadn’t heard her creep up behind him. A few weeks ago, that definitely would have been the case; but because of his enhanced senses, he’d had ample time to brace himself for an onslaught courtesy of the little princess. 

“A while,” he said. He turned around to face the girl whose eyes were studying him, without ire, but curiously, as if he were fascinating. 

“I remember you. You played at the palace several times,” she said. “Your songs were funny.” 

“They were meant to be romantic,” Jaskier said. 

She lifted an eyebrow regally. 

“Besides the raunchy ones,” Jaskier said hurriedly, making her crack a smile. She sat down at the small kitchen table and motioned for him to do the same. The bard sat, trying hard to control his body’s movements – he had discovered recently that he did not know his own strength nor weight now. That had required him to break a few of Yennefer’s chairs. 

“How come you never came to the palace with Geralt?” She asked quietly. “If you were good friends.” 

Jaskier shrugged. “We didn’t stick together all the time. We traveled, I watched him slay a few monsters, recorded his heroics, and then we went our separate ways. That’s it.” 

“Sounds a bit…” Cirilla gestured around vaguely. 

“Yes, well, I _did_ have a life of my own, you know,” Jaskier mumbled, glancing down into the water. “I didn’t just tail Geralt mindlessly. I had… a career, friends, _lovers_.” 

“But nobody quite like Geralt,” Ciri observed sharply. 

Jaskier bit his bottom lip pensively, his hands clutching the cup tightly. He had to remind himself to relax them before the porcelain shattered under pressure. 

“No, I guess not,” he said lamely. 

Somehow, that answer seemed to have satisfied the princess who leaned back in her seat, stretching. Clearly, she had picked up some of Geralt’s less elegant habits over the recent few months. 

“How did you know I was in the dungeon?” Jaskier inquired, finally braving the question he hadn’t been able to ask in the past weeks. 

Ciri shrugged. “I get dreams sometimes. Or, well… I thought they were dreams at first. Nightmares, sometimes. Yennefer told me they were something else. But I could never figure out what I was doing dreaming about the bard from our palace feasts, all bloodied and–,” 

“I’m sorry you had to see that, Your Highness.” 

“It’s no inconvenience for me,” Cirilla replied, as matter-of-fact as she would have when talking about the weather. “My gift can be a blessing in disguise. And you do realize that traveling with a Witcher does make one immune to the sight of guts and gore.”

Jaskier let out a small chuckle. “I am aware. It is quite… a challenge to have to remove all the nastiness when composing a song about his heroics.” 

Cirilla snorted in an un-princess-like way. “I’d wager that.” She gave him a sidelong glance. 

“And now, perhaps, there will be songs about you, the Bard-cum-Witcher,” she said, watching him closely. 

Jaskier shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Perhaps. Although I’d make quite a dull subject, I suppose. I can hardly wield a sword, let alone hunt beasts.” 

“Geralt’s a surprisingly gentle teacher,” the princess replied. “Patient, too.” 

Jaskier gave her an incredulous look. “He was never patient with me. Always… in a hurry, always grumpy and brooding.” 

“Perhaps that was his way of encouragement?” Ciri asked. “Witchers are complicated.” 

The bard glanced sideways and caught his own golden-eyed reflection in a dusty mirror. His likeness stared back at him, face gaunt and gaze flaming. 

“That they are.” 

* * *

“I want you to teach me.” 

“I said I would.” 

“ _Today._ ” 

Geralt gave Jaskier a tired look as he glanced up from the sword he had been polishing. “You are not dressed for a fight.” 

“This is how I will be dressing, so I want to learn to fight in my own clothes, thank you very much,” Jaskier said curtly. 

“You need armor.” 

“What I need is for _my Witcher_ to show me how to do my own… _witchering_.” 

“ _Your_ Witcher, huh?” Geralt gave him an amused look as Jaskier felt his cheeks burst into flames. He wasn’t even sure that Witchers blushed, but he supposed there was a first time for everything. 

The silence hung between them for a few generous moments before Geralt sighed and flipped the sword over in his hand, so that the hilt faced Jaskier. The bard beamed. 

Geralt really needed to stop staring. 


End file.
